


Aftershocks

by ArkadyFlinch



Series: We Are Made of Stars [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Asexual Character, Blind Character, Destroy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Hurt and comfort, Lesbians in Space, Light Angst, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, but also humor, dealing with things after the war, drawing off of the Leviathan dlc, except the geth and relays got fixed, post-war politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArkadyFlinch/pseuds/ArkadyFlinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Briar Ortega is a mercenary with a whole lot of enemies. They're mouthy, rebellious, and wanted by nearly every major power in the Terminus. Recently, they've run to the Shadow Broker for protection in exchange for their expertise with tech. </p><p>Ilya Lakmi is a drell biotic, locked away for a murder she committed during the Reaper War under the influence of Indoctrination. Visions and Voices still plague her, even with the Reaper threat gone. She's freed by an old friend and thrown into the universe three years into the Reconstruction without a purpose.</p><p>Something has stirred that had been hidden in darkness for aeons, just as the major races of the galaxy are moving towards peace, it threatens to send the galaxy into war. Artifacts of unknown origin are causing symptoms that are disturbingly similar to Indoctrination; Some monstrous thing is sighted leaving 2181 Despoina's atmosphere; more and more space stations and satellites are going dark with no real explanation why.</p><p>These two find themselves drawn ever deeper into the machinations of the most ancient being in the Universe, and must figure out how to stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check out my [tumblr](arkadyflinch.tumblr.com) to see me blog about mass effect stuff, my oc's, and writing updates!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Prologue

It was over. It was really over. The Apocalypse itself halted in its tracks by the collective universe.

It was hard to swallow at times, especially with them just...hanging in the air like that. Some crashed, most did, actually, but some weren’t quite close enough to the planets they’d been attacking to fall prey to the pull of gravity. The Homeworlds managed to have them cleared, towed or broken apart and taken to some secure location. But here, and on backwater colonies, or formerly inhabited planets, they hung there, for the most part untouched.

Some were close enough to see the talons, extending towards the planet like the hands of God. Others appeared as bright, artificial stars.

A dark reminder of what had been.

It was haunting, and yet they were striking, in their own way. Huge ships in the sky, dormant for more than 3 years.

How many were out there? They were all dead, that was fact, but how many were out in the depths of space, whole, but empty?

Could they be revived like the geth had been? Repaired, like the Relays?

The barges dotting the ocean below the dead Relics were silent and still. This entire planet was quiet. It was unnerving, not because it was empty, but because this planet had always been empty. These barges they were walking on had been abandoned long before the war.

Yet…

 

“Ortega?”

 

Ortega swiveled their head over to look at the crates that had been dragged out from the cargo bay. Kieley was hacking into yet another box, while the salarian was scanning various artefacts they’d unearthed from the stores.

Mostly diving equipment...repair supplies...the odd ATLAS Mech or drone...all decades out of date, not just a few years. They’d opened several crates of the same fair, and this wasn’t the first barge they’d searched, either.

Kiely glanced up at them and grunted, “Are you gonna help or just stand there?”

Rust and grease marked his face. Between his shorter human companion and the salarian, he’d been doing most of the work. By the tone and the set of his jaw, he knew it, too.

Ortega shrugged and took one last, lingering look at the ships, some more visible than others, that dotted the horizon. There had to be at least ten...maybe twenty...more, just out of sight.

A handful of strides took Ortega to the salarian, the more personable one of their two companions, surprisingly.

“Found anythin’?”

The Salarian shook his head, muttering lowly to himself. Age and experience had worn grooves in his face. His horns had grown so long they nearly crossed as they bent backwards over his head. Ortega didn’t know how old he was, but they were, frankly, scared to ask.

Kiely made a disgusted sound and went back to heaving open the doors of the container.

This one, just like all of the others, was rusted and damp. The oceans hadn’t been kind to the ships nor their cargo. Quite a few of them had been completely flooded and filled with layer upon layer of dead, bone-like growths. Barnacles, or something like it.

 

A tremor shook through the ship. At first Ortega figured it was another volley of waves slapping against the hull, but no, this was definitely a tremor. It ran up their legs and rattled their teeth. Somewhere to their left, a piece of scrap clattered to the ground.

The salarian looked up, eyes wide and darting, if only for a second, to the inactive ships in the sky.

They remained unmoving.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Ortega, I’m sorry if this work is demeaning for you, but you were hired to do the same thing as Traven and I, and you havent-”

 

Ortega shushed him, sound muted behind their helmet. Kieley’s mouth turned down and he prepared to snarl back a reply, if not for the salarian swatting his hand at him, motioning sharply for silence.

Kieley grumbled, but he got up and glared at them, waiting for whatever excuse they had.

 

Alerts flashed over Ortega’s interface. Shock waves, whatever they were, were only just beginning to register on their scans.

 

Another one, this one harsh enough for Kieley to feel it through his armor. He staggered, looking around sharply for the source, then turned back to his companions.

 

“What is that? What is that? What is-Ortega, WHAT IS-”

 

“Shut yer damn mouth, Kieley!” Ortega barked.

Their hud was lighting up with warnings. Nothing above, nothing on the ship...the tremors were coming from below. Something big, approaching fast. In the middle of open ocean.

 

“We need to git!” They shouted, “Whatever it is, we need to-”

 

The ship bucked. One second they were laying flat on a stable surface, and the next, they were nearly vertical. Water rushed up, dragging containers into the deep with it.

Then everything hung in the air. They fell, twice, three times as long as they’d been thrown. The ship rocked, the swingback much further than the initial disturbance.

Ortega was rolling, uncontrollably, towards the edge, Kieley and Traven not far behind.

 

“Shit shit shit shit.”

 

Ortega wasn’t bothering to stop their fall, instead they curled in on themselves and activated their omnitool. They skidded, and slowed, inches from the edge of the barge, and was stopped short by Kieleys hand gripping their ankle.

He snarled and dragged them back, throwing out an arm to stop Traven from tumbling past.

 

Again, for just a moment, they hung in the air. Then they were slammed back down, gravity yanking them back the other way as the ship tilted up.

 

Their shuttle roared to life, doors opening, thrusters priming.

 

For a few seconds, Ortega fought for breath, airlessly shrieking, “Go! Go! Go!”

 

Their teammates got the message.

 

They ran, even as the barge tilted once more, parts of mech and crates sliding along the surface, saved only by magnetic locks from being flung into the sea.

Kieley got to the ship first and threw himself in followed closely by Ortega, who tripped over his flailing limbs and slammed into the other side of the shuttle. Traven stumbled in a second later, voice shrilly cursing something their translators couldn’t hope to handle.

Ortega was screaming, punching in the codes on their omnitool so hard their gloved fingers were jamming themselves against their arm.

 

The doors slid shut, cutting out the scene of the ocean rushing up to meet them.

 

The ship shuddered, but luckily the mass effect dampeners were already kicking in, and they were suddenly screaming in a quiet, stable space.

Ortega clawed their way over Kieley and Traven and into the pilot’s seat, hands flying over the interface and preparing the shuttle for takeoff.

The screen flickered to life and showed them that the sky and the sea had switched places.  

 

“Holy shit.” They breathed, and slammed on the hud once more, watching as the shuttle detached from the barge and hurtled out of the waves.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“Are we dead?”

 

“Holy shit.”

 

“We don’t appear to be.”

 

“ _Holy shit._ ”

 

“Ortega, what?!”

 

The pilot only raised their hand, pointing. They were breathing so hard spots would have danced in front of their eyes, had they not been wearing their helmet. They felt light headed and sick. This couldn’t be.

 

Wave after wave was hitting all of the barges, growing bigger and bigger with each passing set. Some had already flipped over completely, others lay sinking, buried beneath each passing crest.

 

The source of the tremors was breaching the surface a few kilos away. It rose, towering over them, casting their paltry ship in the shade as it blocked out all sunlight.

It moved too fast, for something so big.

 

Not even the walls of the shuttle could muffle the thundering of the sound barrier as it broke atmosphere.

 

It looked like a Reaper.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if the appearance of a Reaper wasn't enough, Ortega's asked to pull a double shift and steal some information from a high-security prison

The airlock sequence was taking longer than usual. Ortega nervously shifted from foot to foot, expression hidden behind the flat black screen of their faceplate. Kiely occasionally glanced down at them. Ortega’s hands were methodically tightening into fists and, with great effort, relaxing. Since they’d gotten their orders en route to the base, the merc had been a bundle of nerves.

They’d all been nervous, seeing what they’d just saw. No one could quite figure out _what_ it was. Cebal refused to speculate until they could get back to base and review the data from their suits and the shuttle. Kiely was practically buzzing with conspiracy theories, stopping just shy of admitting it was a Reaper. Ortega hadn’t commented, keeping their opinions to themself, but their cranked-up anxiety and foul mouth spoke volumes.

Kiely couldn’t quite keep his comments to himself, however, once Ortega reached up to check the port at the back of their helmet for the third time in the short five minutes he sighed, “What’s eatin’ you, Ortega? Nervous?”

Ortega’s hands hesitated, then dropped back down at their sides. They huffed, voice filtering through the helmet’s modulation in a deeper timbre, “I started working for the boss on few conditions; No Terminus hot-spots and no prisons. That’s all. And it’s not Ortega, here. Call me something else. Jones, Muelly, _Smith_.”

Kiely snickered, “Okay _Mr. Smith_ it is then.”

Ortega’s hands spasmed, clenching tight into fists, but they kept their composure. The doors chimed, letting them know they would soon be granted entry.

Cebal was staying behind to monitor the ship and keep their escape route open. Kiely was a pain in the ass, but Ortega needed the fire support and the extra set of eyes.

They’d have to have _another_ conversation with Kiely after this, another in a long line of frustrating boundary-setting discussions that the man was agreeable to, but never showed any signs of real progress with.

Ortega closed their eyes and went over the set of objectives. This last mission, return to base, debrief, and a long, well-deserved break from this. Infiltrate the prison, distract the Warden, hack into the mainframe, see who the bastard was selling his prisoners to, and leave - hopefully without a gunfight.

One hand trailed up to take the grip of their pistol in hand as the airlock doors shuddered open. It was still attached to their back, but the feel of it against their hand calmed them somewhat as they strode into the main lobby.

It was strangely civilian, with adequate seating, and a queue leading up to the front desk. The only thing that gave away that this was a prison were the guards positioned in every corner of the room and flanking the main doors leading into the facility.

It wasn’t until they were halfway across the room that Ortega realized the clerk at the desk was a Hanar, which would, to their dismay, make this a Hanar prison. The guards would be drell enforcers, not some low-class guns for hire. They took a deep breath and slowly let it out, letting Kiely take the lead as he approached the desk. They’d read that in the briefing, but _of course_ they hadn’t been listening, again.

An asari was occupying the Hanar’s attention, quietly but firmly arguing with it. The way she was speaking to it, along with the tone she was using betrayed her impatience. She tsked and sighed when the Hanar slowly, but patiently replied, that, no, they didn’t have who she was asking for.

“That’s what every _other_ Warden I’ve spoken to has said, are you telling me that you don’t know where your own prisoners are?”

“Matriarch D’Raza, this one regretfully cannot locate the prisoner. The prisoner is in another facility, perhaps.”

“Look here-” She stopped, and her tone changed, “Oh, well, don’t let me keep you two. I have to make a call.”

Ortega rolled their shoulders as Kiely stepped forward to take the asari’s place.

“How may this one serve you today?” The Hanar spoke to them in the same patient tone, but the Hanar’s biometrics were much more vocal.

Thankful that they didn’t have to talk much for this mission, Ortega let Kiely do the posturing.

Ortega crossed their arms and tried to look like they weren’t doing anything. The mission summary was still saved in their files, and they pulled it up, muting everything else so they could actually learn something from it this time.

 

The Warden here was a Hanar by the name of Sillicron, who had both connections with the Primacy and the balls to use a prison complex that housed the Primacy’s worst enemies as a sort of secure trading post. Funded by the Hanar government, and located in a remote enough area of the system to do as it pleased, it had been selling anything from rare, often illegally acquired artefacts to prisoners who would quietly disappear to an early grave or, worse, into the Terminus.

Recently it had been selling merchandise that their boss had a vested interest in, and they were here to figure out where it was shipped and where the jelly had gotten the stuff.

From Ortega’s standpoint, it was an easy mission...but then again, the mission on Despoina had been insultingly easy at first glance - and what a colossal fuck-up that had been.

 

The only problem was that the Hanar had annoyingly intricate defense networks. Ortega would have to find a password or a terminal to get into the prison’s database. Hacking would be immediately noticed, and with only the three of them here, an asari talking heatedly with whatever contacts she had, a soldier, and an engineer decked out in a suit that put the Tron movies to shame, they wouldn’t have to try very hard to figure out who the culprit was.

 

Man, when they got their time off after their mission they’d need to go binge on some good ole fashioned sci-fi and some strong asari cocktails.

 

Ortega rocked on their heels, paying barely any attention to Kiely’s attempts to sweet-talk the Hanar - the man tried to sweet talk a vorcha once, and Ortega would pay money to see it happen again, Kiely’s continued survival be damned. The man was barely worth the muscle and discretion as it was.

 

“Look, if no one will tell me where she is I’ll have to report back to Tevos and she will most _certainly_ question Councilor Hadross about the Primacy’s supposed cooperation with the Treatise!”

 

The asari was getting snippy. She didn’t sound like a Matriarch, she seemed to be losing her cool quite a bit. Seemed like she had the connections of one, though, unless, of course, she was fibbing.

 

Ortega turned their head just a bit towards the asari, but Kiely was tapping on their shoulder - time to go.

 

Their interface was always a mess, they liked knowing every single variable in play and that included biometrics, comm lines nearby and what was being said, maps of the facility - if and when they could get it, this one was provided by the boss, so they hadn’t had to worry too much about it - and more often than not an algorithm they’d been working on and off for a while. Once they got to work, though, they went minimalist.

It was hard enough paying attention to what was happening without being distracted by numbers and voices that had nothing to do with what was immediately around them.

Ortega flicked off what wasn’t needed and sadly closed the program they’d been working on - one day they’d get that drone ironed out - and with a few rapid eye movements, had their sensory board open their map. Until they found a port or a terminal they were useless anyway.

 

Kiely was still talking, they weren’t even sure if the Hanar or the drell enforcers escorting them were listening, Ortega sure wasn’t.

 

How much did these enforcers get paid anyway? They were so quiet. No fidgeting, no talking, certainly no hesitating in their steps, which were eerily in time with one another. Surely their expressions were just as boring. Even human soldiers had quirks. Take Kiely for instance, every four steps or so the man’s left foot came down with just a little too much force, making the clunking of his boots more like a _snap_. When he had a comment to make he huffed, then huffed again, sound of his breath getting louder and louder until he finally spat it out.

Ortega couldn’t even hear them breathing. The drell. They could hear Kiely just fine, he was prattling on about this shipment they supposedly had en route, and that the Warden just had to verify the delivery.

 

Ah, there. There was a security checkpoint up ahead, the standard scanner and group of guards, but a small hallway leading off to the left would take them to a Security room. Now they just had to get there.

Well, Ortega did, at least. Kiely could go fuck off anywhere as long as he took the guards with him.

They muted their helmet and opened a comm between them, letting Kiely know that they needed a diversion.

He coughed slowing to a stop. “Hang on, I’m getting a call...Yeah? ...No, the shipment’s supposed to be...you’re kidding.”

 

“Is something the matter?” Ortega couldn’t hear the Hanar move, but by the sound of it’s voice it was right beside Kiely, with the two escorts drawing up closer to him in case he was pulling something. They let the guards pass them as they slowed their steps, scrolling through lines of information.

The guards up ahead were hidden around a corner, not quite in their line of sight. With the drell walking in front of Ortega, they, for the moment, had the drop on ‘em.

 

They activated their omnitool, fingers quickly typing in the keys they needed. A drone spawned beside them, and with a small whirr that was much too loud for Ortega’s tastes, activated it’s stealth field. While it was bright as a sun to Ortega’s interface, it wasn’t on any visible spectrum for their friends to see.

They’d already made that mistake once, thinking that drell saw more or less what human and asari could see. Perceptive fuckers. Kiely’d almost lost an ear on that mission.

 

“Boss, did the boys in shipping mess up again?”

 

Kiely grunted, “They say they can’t _find_ it. Idiots.”

 

“Hey now,” Ortega quickly stepped up to Kiely, knocking him affectionately on the shoulder, “let me handle the egg heads. Go meet with Sillicron, make amends, and I’ll get them moving. We’ll even throw in somethin’ extra.”

 

Kiely laughed, “Is it alright if I leave my man here behind? He’ll handle the gritty details while we talk business.”

 

Ortega muted their helmet and leaned against the wall. The drone was well on it’s way, and with the map uploaded into their interface, they didn’t even need to watch it round the corner while Kiely played off their ruse.

 

“...Escort him back to the waiting room.”

 

The enforcer didn’t so much as speak, the drell probably waved at them or something - their attention was elsewhere. They followed them back, and it was silent for the most part.

 

The drone’s sensors were a bit of a bitch to handle, especially while walking through the long hallways themself. It was like operating two different drones, in a way, and both of them had different controls and abilities. Not that they hadn’t done _that_ before, but damned if their brain would make anything easy.

After narrowly avoiding swerving into a guard - the drone, not Ortega - they managed to make it to the security room. A quick scan told them there were two guards inside, and that they were relatively close together. No one was in the hall the drone was in, and that window of opportunity was shrinking.

They stopped, nearly running into the drell - Ortega did, not the drone - and they un-muted their helmet to mutter a quick “sorry” before walking around them to the main waiting room.

 

Just being away from the actual prison, and knowing the airlock was just a quick sprint away did wonders on Ortega’s nerves, and they managed to steer their body to a nearby wall to lean against.

Controlling everything with their eyes was disorienting at best and exhausting at worst. Here they were free to fiddle with their OmniTool without looking too suspicious, at least. Once they had control at their fingertips they let out a long sigh and stopped splitting their focus between themself and their drone.

 

The doors were open with a quick hack, and they steered the drone in before the drell could question the mysterious opening doors.

The drone was a new project of theirs, long range-control, stealth field, and no real combat capabilities. Unlike their other drone prototypes, this one was too new to name, though there were a wealth of options at this point. That was the hardest part, really. Ortega had a list of names to narrow down and they hated committing to anything, much less the name of something that had no feelings to hurt.

 

Distracted again, Ortega bit the inside of their cheek and checked the status of their surroundings.

 

The enforcers were sweeping the room, it looked like, on guard but unsure if the door was an accident or something sinister, Ortega maneuvered it into a corner until there was a clean shot to a terminal. It didn’t need to touch the terminal, just close enough to execute an override and open a secure channel between the three of them.

 

Ortega notified Kiely when they got it open and got to work.

It would take too much time to search through everything and access the Warden’s personal files from here, if they even could from an isolated security room. They scrolled through the prisoners list, using a program to find interesting names rather than going through each and every one.

While that was mining for info, Ortega went through shipping manifests, looking for anything that wasn’t strictly prisoner-exchange. The Warden’s business dealings were locked up so they opened another program to begin cracking that mess.

 

“Prisoner Escort incoming, prepare the proper documentation.”

 

Ortega hadn’t even been aware that they’d opened another comm to listen in on the checkpoint, and they cursed - their feed was cluttered as hell again. A prisoner _leaving_ , though, that was interesting. Perhaps the asari had gotten her second-wind after they’d left.

They pulled the name and saved it for later, just in case and returned to cracking the restrictions set on their hunt. Hanar systems were a bitch because unless you knew the exact password, they were near impenetrable. Ortega was less trying to find the password and more trying to find anything hidden away that wasn’t strictly labeled classified. They had programs for hacking, anyway, let them waste the effort trying to get in.

 

There. They turned their attention to a list of ships that had visited recently that _hadn’t_ been strictly prisoner/guard detail or a supplies drop off. The Hanar running this business sold to rich collectors mostly, pawning off Prothean Artefacts, or passable imitations, to a wealth of black market dealers. This prison wasn’t likely to be advertised anywhere, so anyone making a stop without dropping anyone off was suspect.

It went without saying that the info was encoded, but that, thankfully, wasn’t Ortega’s job. They downloaded everything they found, and turned back to other lines of possible info.

 

“The Councilor will be livid that she’s free.”

 

“How long do you bet she lives before someone takes her out?”

 

“A week at most. 200 credits that a mercenary does it.”

 

“No, I’m betting one of ours, 400 for her quietly disappearing.”

 

“There’s nothing _quiet_ about a vanguard.”

 

Ortega was right that the drells’ voices were just as boring as their demeanor. The bass in the voice was nice, but filtered badly - at least to their ears - over comm. Their tones were flat, or maybe they weren’t, they just couldn’t hear them. Looks like the prisoner wasn’t very popular, but the entire exchange was odd. Even when they thought they were alone, were their voices always so damn deadpan?

 

A sharp, piercing alarm blared in their ears, and they jumped, wildly searching through programs and windows they’d opened to find out what was wrong.

 

Their drone - hell - one of the guards had tripped over the thing. So much for a stealth field. So much for an infiltrator. Their fingers flew over their OmniTool and they activated the drone’s only means of defense.

The first shock didn’t seem to do much, so they dialed it up and shot the guard with another electrical jolt. This one staggered them, but didn’t stop a line of bullets pulling up error messages and status reports in their wake. Ortega felt like crawling out of this stupid suit, with all the messages sending different signals in their ears and along their skin, rapid fire sensations that they'd learned to interpret into data, sometimes so fast they felt they'd never be able to keep up.

Ortega cranked the fucker up to max and unleashed another neuro-shock, sighing in relief when the attack, and the alarms, briefly ceased.

 

They had precious little time, and shouted as much to Kiely over comm before shutting down everything they didn’t need to focus on keeping that connection open for the shitty data mining job they were managing to pull off despite everything.

 

They steered the drone as close to the console as possible and locked down the doors, which would, realistically, only give them so much time.

They started downloading everything they could while they shouted at Kiely to get his ass moving.

 

Switching from comm to comm to track what was happening, they pinged Cebal and told him to start up the engines. They hesitated, unsure if they should run to the ship and leave Kiely to deal with the guards in this room alone. So far, they seemed to think the problem was inside the complex, and not the lone person in the waiting room, so they were safe...for now.

 

Until the blame fell on Kiely and they got word that the two guests were up to no good.

 

Groaning, they tore their attention away from their drone and scanned the room. Two by the door into the facility, one flanking their side, and one by the entryway to the docks. Four widely spaced targets to take out before any of them realized what was happening.

 

At the same time, they were watching the door, watching the list of files that were being successfully downloaded to their omnitool, watching. 

 

A headache was forming, splitting their forehead into two distinct areas of pain, and that wasn’t even mentioning how badly the port was beginning to ache and burn.

 

The door to the security room opened, and Ortega hurriedly keyed in the drones self-destruct sequence and shut off their connection.

 

It was like exiting a club and having a massive wall of sound and scent and touch suddenly cease. They were one person again, and their skin no longer a map of data endlessly flowing along their nerve endings in touches and taps and small, ultimately painless electric currents.

 

Their hand flew to their pistol and jerked it free, the gun only having enough time to slide into shape for a split second before they were firing.

 

It was heavy, but the muzzle had a neat silencer on it, and though the kickback was a bitch, it delivered in power. With only a few quiet _whumps_ they’d taken out the two guards at the door, with enough time to turn 90 degrees to the side to sight the third before the firefight started. There was something comforting about the weight of it, and the way the kick jarred up their whole arm. A minute ago their senses had been on fire, over-stimulation turning everything into a garbled mess. Now, the reassuring kick-kick-kick of their gun was  _real_ enough to grab their attention, crude enough so that they didn't feel crowded. Even the sound of the gunfire, however muffled behind their armor, was a relief. Something real and visceral to remind them that the world existed outside their interface.

 

They ducked down, tech armor flaring to life as gun fire sizzled past them. They took out the third drell with another series of shots and rolled behind cover as the fourth hid in the doorway out of their range, peppering the room with rifle-fire.

 

Ortega’d muted their helmet again, and was waiting for an update from Kiely, but all they got was more static, and the news that someone was shooting their way out of the prison from the comms. The floor shook under their feet as the drone detonated, and they grinned when Cebal pinged them back, “It seems no mission you two go on can end quietly, can it?”

 

“Keep that engine hot for me, darlin’”

 

They tossed a grenade and shot the drell as they scrambled out of their little niche to avoid the blast.

 

“You realize how bad our track record for this is, correct? The Broker will certainly not be rewarding us for two complete failures.”

 

“I’ve got the data we just got a little side-tracked is all.”

 

“Hurry up.”

 

Ortega crouched behind a bench and shot at another wave of guards as they tried to enter through the narrow hallway. “Ya hear that, Kiely?! Git!”

 

Two, three more fell before a different figure ran out of the hallway, pursued by yet more guards. Kiely launched over the bench and ran for the airlock. Ortega followed close behind, tossing more grenades to keep them from being followed too closely.

 

They ran into the shuttle and Cebal broke away from the station while they were still in-airlock. They hit FTL as fast as they could before the orbiting guns could catch their tails and once the shuttle was in the safety of empty space they collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Cebal was, no doubt, looking at them with a sour look on his face, Ortega didn’t bother checking, they knew it, so they laughed softly and reassured, “We got the data.”

 

“Oh thank _god_ we got the data, meanwhile I’m sitting here with a gunshot in my ass and not a single ‘thanks Dylan, you really did good covering for me, how about a drink?’”

 

Ortega ignored Kiely’s asinine comment and leaned back in their seat. “Was that the _last_ stop before we get back to base?”

 

Cebal seemed just as relieved, sighing, “Yes. We just need to turn over the data and we’ll be done with it.”

 

Ortega threw their hands up, whooping, “I’m gonna _love_ some time off!”

 

“Any plans for time off?” Kiely was relentless. Ortega ignored him again, pulling up their OmniTool to check for any new messages.

 

They checked the name of the prisoner that had the misfortune of being released during their antics and frowned over the lack of results. Not a single mention. Odd. Maybe she’d been some sort of _problem_ the Primacy couldn’t settle in the light of day. Whatever, the Broker would be interested either way. Information, no matter how inconsequential, always had a price.

 

“So Ortega hitting any clubs after this? Take that stuffy helmet off and going dancing?”

 

“Kiely _christ_ , no! I’m not in the mood to deal with you.”

 

“Deal with me? I just wanted some drinks and to chill-”

 

“No,” Ortega interrupted, “You called me a man earlier, and I’m still pissed about it. Remember what we talked about?”

 

“Your voice sounded like a man’s is all. I thought that was your cover…”

 

Good god they hated that simpering, defensive tone he used whenever this problem came up. “So what’s my voice sound like normally? A man’s, or a woman’s?”

 

“You know what I mean. _It was just a joke!_ ”

 

“ _No_ , I don’t.” They bit back, crossing their arms, “Just shut up and stop digging yer grave, asshole. I’m not in the mood to have drinks with you, so the answer’s no.”

 

“Why do you always have to be like this-”

 

Ortega muted their helmet and sat back, closing their eyes. This was gonna be a long ride.

 

\---

 

A long and tense silence is easier to live through without being able to hear the annoying sounds Kiely made when he got his feelings hurt, so Ortega spent the time listening to music and pointedly not paying attention to anything anyone was saying.

 

It wasn’t until Kiely roughly shoved their shoulder that they realized they were there. Here.

 

The base. One of hundreds of small, minimalistic space stations owned by people loosely associated with the Broker. They were small ports, refueling stations, even trade posts, the only difference was that people like them, people working for a giant, faceless moniker reported there to a handful of other agents who in turn reported to _other_ agents all the way down the line until someone, presumably, talked to the Big Boss themself.

 

Ortega stretched, and followed their team out of the shuttle and into the docking bay. The second they set foot off of the thing technicians were onboard, wiping down the shuttle, refueling, downloading it’s data, and getting it ready for someone else to use.

The front for the shuttle service was Ferris Transportation, another front for a front owned by someone who owed someone else, which really just meant they owed the Broker.

Nearly everyone here had something or the other hanging over their head. The Broker had the universe's’ best intel network, and no one got into that network without a very _extensive_ background check.

 

Even Ortega owed the Broker, although the nature of their employment was less blackmail and more gratitude. Sure, if they left and spilled all the secrets they’d learned working for the Broker they’d likely find all of their information leaked to the worst possible people, but they also had the Broker to thank for a lot of things.

Steady employment without a fear of the past coming back to catch them was one of them, arguably the most important one.

 

It didn’t sit right with them, sometimes, going from one person’s lap into another’s, but the Broker had never asked anything of them they absolutely refused to do, and in a way, it was different. At least, that’s usually how they reasoned it.

But they weren’t here for that. They were here to report in and request some much-needed rest. They could unplug, eat enough pills to take the ache away from their head, and drink until they fell asleep, likely in the middle of listening to a movie.

 

A different guy was there to receive their debriefs, some sort of drell, and he escorted them into a holding room while he took them, one by one, into an interrogation room and asked them what had happened on Despoina. Kiely said he was a colorful one, looked like a rainbow.

Ortega snorted, then promptly went back to ignoring him.

 

They volunteered to go last, seeing as if they were around when Kiely was, he’d probably try to follow them home or argue with them about their stupid jokes. It wasn’t creepy yet, the man was toeing the line, but Ortega was quickly getting tired of it.

 

Kiely was a co-worker they could only handle so much time with. They needed a break.

 

Speaking of, they shut off and disengaged their helmet, waiting for the thing to depressurize and, finally, sighing with relief once it was pulled free.

 

Christ their port ached, they rubbed the back of their neck, careful around their irritated flesh and the metal of the implant.

They used the thing more than they should, and it always gave them the worst migraines, on top of the long hours and the dirt of the past couple of days, they were ready to go home.

 

“Ortega.”

 

Drell voices weren’t so flat after all, in person, at least. Ortega could at least hear the extra boom in his voice. They got up and followed the Agent into the back, hearing Cebal humm as he passed them in the hall.

 

Once they were seated and niceties were done with - “Would you like something to drink?” “You got whiskey - ha, thought not.” - the drell introduced himself and asked for an account of what happened on Despoina.

  


“We were sent out to collect some artefacts, right? Well we searched everywhere, something like 40-50 different barges - all of ‘em were deserted, none of them had anything worthwhile, by the way, big waste of time on that front.”

 

He cleared his throat and Ortega shook their head, “Sorry, anyway, we were searching our last one, can’t give you the coordinates off the top of my head but the shuttle probably has ‘em. And suddenly my sensors are going crazy. Electromagnetic interference, huge pressure change, temperature, you name it. Something big was coming, and it was coming quick.”

 

“Were you able to identify what it was?”

 

“Naw...I couldn’t tell what it was at all. Everything was going haywire though, the readings probably weren’t too accurate, to be honest. Anyway whatever it was, it was throwing waves all over the place, we had to run to get to the shuttle in time. The barge we were on was flipping over by the time we got out, and that’s when it breached.”

 

Ortega paused, trying to gather what they knew of the thing. They interlaced their fingers, slowly recounting the details, “I’m sure Kiely and Cebal were of better help, I know it was the size and shape of a Reaper, and it damn near killed us going into atmo, and since it wasn’t a ship...what else could it be?”

 

“It could be a great many things…” The drell muttered, and Ortega shrugged.

 

“Well from all accounts, it looked like a Reaper, so-”

 

“Did it?”

 

Ortega scowled, “Why you asking me? I tol’ you it had the same size n’ shape-”

 

“Is there anything you _can_ tell us? Anything that might indicate otherwise?”

 

“Nope.” Ortega grit out, jaw clenching and unclenching as they popped the knuckles in their hands.

 

“Thank you...I’m sorry. That will be all.”

 

Ortega shot up like a bullet and breezed out of the room, glad to be out of that room. No doubt he was pissed that they couldn’t figure out if it was or not, but why take it out on them? They were just here to report what they’d witnessed. Later, they’d have to do it again, and send it off to the Broker. No point getting pissed at the one person who couldn’t tell him, one way or the other, what the thing had been.

 

And if it was a Reaper? Did it wake up again? Were they coming back?

 

They didn’t like the implications of that, and the scowl stayed on their face as they bought dinner and picked up some drinks. They could feel the wrinkles forming between their brows, but couldn’t quite shake the expression off of their face.

 

Too many implications, and they didn’t like thinking about it, but for once their mind refused to jump to something else.

 

It could have been revived without being _revived_. Enough Reapers were left out there in space for some junker to no doubt excavate the thing and make it some sort of flagship...but was that any less alarming?

 

Ortega preferred walking around the station, but they were beginning to regret it, this was giving them way too much time to chew over the events in Despoina.

 

Another war wouldn’t ruin them, hell, it might distract the people they really didn’t need to meet from hunting them down, but a war was a war, and they, like damn near everyone else in the universe, was more than glad to put the whole thing behind them.

 

They hated dwelling on the past, and didn’t want to end up in the same dead-end relationship they’d been in while the war was going on, too scared to leave in case they got caught up in the war of all things, when slavery had been the much more present danger to watch for.

Sometimes they found themselves missing the good ole days, though, before they’d been stabbed in the back and forced to go into hiding.

This life wasn’t so different. They still travelled the galaxy and raised hell. They just couldn’t use the few pairs of names they’d actually grown attached to. They couldn’t show their face. Really all that had changed was the company they kept and, of course, job security.

 

Kiely messaged them, another invite - seriously, the guy was like a leech when there wasn’t enough tail to be had. He was damn lucky he knew how to keep his mouth shut around other people. And that he knew his way around every class of weapon you could think of. And that he was real good at watching their back.

 

They keyed open their door and for the first time in days, allowed themselves to let their guard down. No teammates to worry about, no deadlines, no stupid missions, nothing. They could shower, veg out, and hopefully get some sleep tonight.

Several drinks would keep their mind from wandering to what might happen in the future, and if they turned up the volume high enough, they might even be able to follow along to the plot of a movie for a couple hours.

They collapsed on their small cot and got to work forgetting everything that had happened in the past 72 hours, if only for a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dreamer awakens

Memory swirled like currents around her, dragging her between sensations vivid and dulled. Roughly, it spun her to face the mangled and broken forms of the Forgotten, their dark eyes intent upon her. Try as she might, she could not recall their names. She'd never bothered learning them, and now their accusing stares never left her.  
Every death she'd given them, she remembered with perfect clarity…

Upon a wall, gun pointed up into his chest; a hundred broken bones and the uneven wheezing sounding hollowly in their lungs; a small slip of a drell woman, mouth opening in horror seconds before biotics flung her body again and again into the walls, the ceiling, the floor, over and over and over; yet another victim of her biotics, crumpling to the ground; soaring off of the edge of a high walkway; hands wrapped tight around his skull, forcing his head underwater, long after he'd stopped struggling…and yet she still couldn't recall their names. Had she ever been told their names?

She'd never been graceful...she was never meant to be graceful. Her every step was supposed to shake the earth, her presence alone a promise that no one would leave the settlement alive…her touch was meant to rend, her mind meant to break bodies far beyond recognition, her very name, a threat.

Something unimaginably immense lurked on the very edges of her senses. She could not see in this pitch around her, but it loomed anyway, somehow darker than the lightless water around her, at times a massive mimicry of herself, at others, it took a different far more unrecognizable form. It's eyes burned into her at all times, no matter where she was pulled, no matter how many of Kalahira’s damned surrounded her.

Just as the giant couldn't be seen, but felt, she sensed that she was in an immense space occupied by thousands...millions, lost, just like she was.

Fira...to be lost...forever being crowded in the darkest depths of Kalahira's currents, with no one waiting for one’s return to shore...with no one remembering one’s name...forgetting even oneself in this frigid abyss.

The water around her was drawing her ever downward into darker depths. Freezing waters turned icy, the cold sinking into her bones and turning her limbs to lead. The pressure all around her only increased and made it impossible to breathe or even drown. She couldn't draw a breath, be it air or water.

They occasionally bumped into her, carried through these dark currents, from one cold, empty sea to the next. Kalahira’s hands were never still.  
Like hers, her hands were meant for death. Unlike her, Kalahira was the easy ebbing and flowing of the tides, effortlessly lethal.

Beautiful.

She curled up as best she was able, eyes shut tight, hiding among her bodies as they were thrown from one place to the next. The currents shifted without warning, and she was so disoriented that she didn't even know which way was up. If she had the energy to fight, to try to flounder her way up, she might succeed in burying herself even deeper.

To be Forgotten is a fate worse than death, to be left drowning in Kalahira’s depths, dragged deeper and deeper until the pressure of the atmospheres above crushed your body into sand.

All of them she'd done her best to forget. She, like her team, had hidden herself away, finding refuge in Memory and battle-sleep.

15 years had been spent back in her childhood, when she'd been young, breathless, hands and nose pressed to glass so cold it felt sharp, eyes wide, watching for hours on end the waves as they broke against the lower levels of the city.  
The seas had always been dark and troubled, their city located permanently in the heart of a great and terrible storm. Rain, no matter how hard they tried to muffle it through thicker and thicker plating, through simulated sunshine and calming music, beat beat beat against their city.  
Kalahira herself trying to pry open their walls and doom all of them to the endless abyss.  
Hours upon hours spent curled up in the underbelly of her city, cold, alone, and absolutely enraptured by the constant motion of the oceans below her.  
The waves never ceased, and she'd found a sort of trance like state in watching, in reminding herself how easily the Goddess could swallow them all whole.

She shivered, eyes flickering shut for a moment. Sometimes she found herself wishing for that endless embrace. Youth in the city were few, most had been taken for the Compact, and she was yet another fledgling waiting until her name was called.

Ilya Lakmi

How much she missed such whimsical fantasy...that the Goddess’ embrace was warm. Kalahira’s seas were endless, and abominably cold. Kalahira’s seas were crowded with Forgotten faces, those who had been lost and had lost themselves in kind.

How foolish she'd been to think she could hide from their faces by hiding herself in memory. They stared at her from every warm touch shared with her parents, they watched her as she laughed with her team, they were there while she rested in the arms of her lovers.

There was no distant shore here, and there never would be.

Erynn giggled until she was gasping for air, the warmth from being among many smiling faces in her eyes. Her skin, like spiced honey. Her hands warm in Ilyas own. Her lips, warm on her own. Her voice muffled in the crook of her neck.

She snatched the name from the darkness and held it close, teeth clenching until they creaked, a sob caught in her throat, hands tightly pressed to her body.  
Not her...not her...she would never forget her name. She would hold onto it if it meant losing her own.

Another name, a flicker of that soft smirk, those brooding eyes, and the striped skin of her fellow biotic. Calm words shared late at night over cups of tea, a hand in her own, steadying her through the migraines, a voice shouting above the roar of gunfire, keeping her anchored in the moment. Sethe.

Their name she plucked from the abyss with care, winding it around her wrist so that they would never let go again.

Light threaded through the bodies, bright hues of blue bringing to mind husky laughter and a penchant for mischief. His pranks had kept them from going into battle sleep long after their naïveté had given way under the reality of their orders. How often had she seen him curled up in the cot with Sethe, talking about everything and nothing at all. How often had his voice obscured their pain, had broken their silence. Durzha

His name was a warm embrace that settled around her effortlessly, and brought with it the rest of the team.

There had been eight of them, once. Their names slid through her fingers into the aether, she could only hold onto so much without letting go of another, and she couldn't forget those she'd destroyed.

Erynn, Sethe, Durzha...Erynn Sethe Durzha…

Kalahira, Goddess of the endless depths, please, take everything else, take my name but not theirs. Forget me but not them.

She tapped at the glass, feeling or perhaps imagining the feeling of the rain as it battered against it. Ice cold fingers trying to pry their way inside, into their home and into their lungs. Air filters and heaters protected them from the humidity, her father worked in the underbelly making sure that they were well maintained. As a result he didn't get much light from the lamps installed in their home, and he was always coughing. As of late it had become rather phlegmatic, but no one talked about it. She saw it in the way he squeezed her small hands in his, as if he could reassure her with the strength in his grip. The way her mother gave him long lingering looks and the way he would thrum in response, until the air was stolen from his lungs in a painful fit of coughing.

Until he was stolen from them and was sent to the hospital.

If he'd ever come back, she wouldn't know. She'd turned eight and the Hanar had come for her. She hadn't heard from them since.

There had been eight of them once. Eight faces of her new family, eight bodies all piled up on the floor after a long day.

Shot in the stomach, eyes wide as blood pooled out from their armor; left behind on a space station that had gone dark and lost air pressure; thrown by some monstrosity off a cliff face onto the rocks below; shaking, hands tight on their rifle as they fought back the assassins so that the four of them could escape…

Their names danced out of her reach. They had died years ago. She'd mourned and moved on, stepping over their bodies like she'd been taught, continuing the slaughter so that the Primacy would remain safe.

Her eyes were fixed on her, empty, as she turned on her heel to face her. Erynn had always been graceful in a way she could never replicate. Every step had a purpose, every shot hit it's mark.  
“Erynn please.”  
The muzzle of her rifle raised up, from this distance it didn't matter how strong her barrier was. The rounds would tear through it and her shield in seconds and punch holes through her body.

The name turned to poison in her hands, clawing its way into her chest, biting and scratching every part of her it could reach like a rabid animal.

As hard as she tried, she could not hold onto it, and it, along with the others, disappeared into the murk. The bodies all around her and the foreboding figure in the distance were all she had now.

Explosions sent the bodies spinning around her, gunshots and the rending of metal, alarms and that damned blaring siren that turned her blood to ice. The clanking of her boots against the floor, echoed by her team.  
A quick in and out, First Land had become corrupted and they were there to protect the Primacy’s secrets. One of those monsters had followed them to the station and was tearing it apart before their mission could be completed.  
The ground shuddered underfoot, sending them scattering in every direction. Their Commander calmly relayed orders, voice unperturbed by the sirens, by the screams of those living and indoctrinated.  
“Get to the airlock! First Land is lost!” Durzha, in hysterics, wheezing breaths and whimpered prayers to the gods.  
Sethe grabbed her arm and hauled her back to her feet, while Erynn’s precise bursts of fire covered their back.  
“Is the target taken care of?” Quil’s soothing tones over comm. Someone, she wasn't sure who, barked a negative.  
“Go back.”

Sethe was first to the airlock, punching in the codes, and when the door refused to open, they slammed their body against it.  
  
“Go back.”

The station shuddered and the alarms muted while the VI tonelesly informed them of proper evacuation procedures. The siren interrupted it in a massive, blast that sent them cowering into the door, eight hands hammering against it, eyes shut tight, lips pulled back from teeth in a pained snarl.  
It beat against her head, having become louder and louder as this war had gone on. She could hear it behind her eyes and hidden within her mind, whispers and voices, giving her order after order.

It knew her name

Claw your way in, Ilya

Go back

Destroy the target on the other side of the door, Ilya

Go back, this is an order.

She came to with a shuddering breath in a different area of the station, marching in step with her team. They were all lost in battle sleep with wide open, yet vacant eyes. They had been for months, for months, she also had been.  
“Erynn…”  
She didn't turn at the sound of her name, and Ilya said it again, louder.  
An explosion stole the air from her body, stole the sight of her team from her as the hallway erupted in fire and shrapnel.

Ice spiked in her chest, and she startled awake, still lost in the murk among the bodies of her victims.

Go back and finish the job.

Everyone on this station was dead, or would be dead within the hour. The Reapers were cutting through the Hanar’s defensive network, aided in part by the traitor they’d been sent here for.  
Spots danced in front of her eyes, dark shapes suggesting form, darting from one darkened corner to the next. She flinched when one ran in front of them, she hesitated mid-step, and fell behind her comrades.

We can’t go back, she felt like screaming, she wished she’d screamed.  
Instead all that fell from her lips was a choked out ‘No.’

As one, her team turned to her. Sethe looked at her with drawn brows.

“What was that Lakmi?”

Erynn. Never one to disobey an order, brows furrowed and mouth set in a thin line as if she hadn’t just been asked to wander back out into a failing station. As if her death wasn’t waiting for her, by bullet or vacuum of space.

it wasn't really Erynn though, this was a cold, empty vessel wearing her face, sheltering Erynn's soul, carrying her to glory whether she wanted to or not. Even so...

Lakmi. She was always Lakmi when she did something Erynn disapproved of. Ilya turned back to the door, hammering on it with her fists, “Quil! Let us in!”  
She had no idea when they'd made their way back, or even how, the ruined halls of the empty station, along with her treacherous memory, made recollection nearly impossible.

“The Target hasn’t been dealt with.”

She could hear Erynn’s brisk steps towards her, she feared feeling her hand on her arm, eyes far too distant to really comprehend what it was their commander was asking them to do. Battle Sleep had been her refuge, now, for whatever reason, she feared slipping back into it more than the cold grip of death.

She was ready to die, she wasn’t ready to march into it when it could be avoided. She refused to die to prove some point!

She wasn't ready to die, but her team was, and she followed them everywhere, would follow them onto the distant shore awaiting them.

Fear.

Only cowards feel fear.

Erynn’s hand closed around her wrist.

“No!!!” She threw up her free hand, biotics flaring, but instead of Erynn’s dark eyes, she was met with blue.

She dropped her arm, biotics fading around her, energy crawling in her skin, begging for release.  
It took effort, but she pushed them back down, doing her best not to further scare the asari before her while she tried to remember where she was.

A small, cramped room, no windows, no fresh air, her tomb until she took the same path as her team and sank into darkness.  
Only...it looked like that wasn't going to happen.

“No!” She snapped, turning away from the Asari. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Execution, torture, another scientist wanting to slice open her brain…  
She was supposed to be forgotten here.  
She’d been trying to be forgotten here.  
To forget, here.

"Aure Lakmi..." The asari spoke slowly, calmly, hands open and inviting, but not pressing into her space. Showing her that she was friendly. "My name is D'Raza. I'm here to free you."

Her words made no sense, and at the same time Ilya felt the cold chill of something she'd never foreseen. She'd been sent here to die. There was no easy way to put it. Drell sent to the prisons deep in the oceans of Kahje, or orbiting backwater colonies were sent there to cease existing.

That had been her final order, and here she was, telling her that she was gonna fail at even that simple task.

"Wrong..."

The asari' said reassuring smile froze in place, only her eyes betraying her confusion, "Im sorry, what?"

"You have the wrong person." Ilya turned to regard her small cell, she hadn't really looked at it since she'd been sent here, and the few times she'd woken up and shaken off memory long enough to get her bearings, she hadn't really cared enough to take stock. It was empty, devoid of everything save a cot and, farcically, a desk. The chair was flipped over. She didn't remember sitting at the desk, but the evidence was there. Memories consumed and ate away at everything else, and already her nerves were rubbed raw by her own uncontrollably racing thoughts. 

A soft chuckle, the asari's voice was worn, tired. "Oh, I assure you, there's been no mistake. You've been chosen."

Ilya flinched, tears biting at her eyes as her mother, eyes expressing an inner torment that her smile tried in vain to mask. 

"Father was gone, and now I was leaving too, leaving mother alone. I'd never seen her look so lost, alone in our home. For an instant, I imagined that I could run back, hug her, and we could go walk to the hospital to visit him. I should feel special, should feel honored to fulfill the Compact as the Hanar came for me. Chosen. Her shaking hands had caressed my cheeks, lifting my face up to plant one last kiss on my brow.  'I'm so proud of you.' "

Ilya took a deep breath, and exhaled, fingernails digging into her palms with enough force to pull her from memory.

"I decline." She righted the chair and hovered somewhere between sitting back down in it and remaining standing. 

"Don't you want to leave?"

This gave her pause, and slowly, she straightened back up. No. She didn't. She was sick of being summoned from place to place, even in being freed, indebted to yet another cause.

She wanted to rot here, to dive into Kalahira's embrace, and never surface again. Forget what she was and who she was supposed to be. Redemption had never been part of the plan. She was who she was, and no one could change that. 

Ilya had made the sacrifices expected of her, and now she just wanted to stay in the darkness. The effort wasn't worth her, she had been expected to die with her team. And she intended to do exactly that.

But...in all of the years she'd been here...she'd tried to lose herself, to forget and be forgotten. Never quite staying lost in somnolence for long, never truly entering battle sleep even as her team did around her. As simple as it was, she hadn't been able to do it.

Here there was nothing to do but wait. These cells minimized sound, even the act of feeding the prisoner didn't make any unecessary noise. Built to lull drell into somnolence. No need for active guard patrols when the prisoners were all sleeping. 

She had, of course, been lost in memory. It was hard not to, when there was no other stimulus to distract her from her thoughts. It was the comfort of cool, dark waters closing over her head, silence encasing her and shutting out the whispers that danced like silk webs in the breeze, clinging yet nearly impossible to find.

Shed spent entire weeks and months dancing with Erynn in the sunlight - real sunlight, warm and playing across their scales - months, no, years reliving those endless days where she watched the rain and the waves, where she ran the streets with a gang of children, all happy and smiling faces. She was as a moth, drawn to one of thousands of different, burning lights, flitting from one to another endlessly. Timeless in her infatuation.

 Yet another failure on her part that she was even here, having this conversation with an interloper, unable to slip under still waters permanently. It wasn't the asari's fault, though. She kept waking up on her own without a disturbance to blame. Restlessness would seize her now and then and she'd awaken pacing the room, unable to recall for how long she'd been walking in small, uneven circles. She couldn't explain it. Like the whispers that endlessly spoke in the background, a vision of stars she'd never seen, and that endless feeling of having left something behind dogged her waking thoughts. 

If the asari left, she would sit back down and in moments be lost in memory, laying with Erynn in their narrow bunks, hands grasping at each other, smothering their laughter with sloppy kisses pretending they were quiet enough for the others not to hear.

But...eventually, she would wake up again. 

Feeling like she still had a job to do, still had some obligation to fulfill. Whatever it was, it was stuck. She would never be rid of the feeling, and the feeling would never let her be.

Was it the gods, calling her to some higher purpose? Indoctrination? Madness?

Ilya didn't pretend to fear the gods anymore, wasn't sure herself if she fully believed in them. At any rate, if they had needed someone, they'd have needed Erynn's unwavering courage, or Durzha's expertise, even Sethe's calm...they had spared the wrong one. All Ilya was, was a weapon. 

And yet...

Did she want to stay here forever? Unable to sleep, unable to forget?

She huffed, "I guess I have to, don't I?"

The asari's face lit up in a grin, it was so disarmingly earnest. The woman guestured for her to follow and, in a few quick steps, she was out of her cell.

The experience was dizzying, and she tried orienting herself in the long, featureless hall. 

And, just as fast, guards surrounded them, voices loud and booming, and Ilya couldn't, not matter how hard she tried, focus on their words long enough to actually understand them. She didn't need to, however, because a few seconds later, like a bomb had gone off, she was on the ground, a knee digging into her back, rifle placed at the back of her head.

She didn't fight, she was still processing being on the ground. The asari was shouting, on top of the guards shouting, on top of shocks, both felt and heard, in the distance. 

Explosions.

She needed to get off this station, it was going to break apart under her feet, just like with Sera, lost in the cold, airless darkness of space. If she didn't get out right now she was going to die. She needed to find her team, get them to the airlock, and force her way in there, she could pry open the doors with her biotics, and get them to safety. If she didn't the Reapers would...

Her biotics weren't cooperating with her, fizzling and flaring in strong but directionless bursts. 

Another exposion...or...she was kicked...? She blinked, and suddenly the shouting rang in her ears, the asari, shrill and furious above the shouts of guards, "She doesn't have an amp! What are you doing?!"

A hand, warm and comforting, stroked her arm, "Aure Lakmi...can you hear me?"

She nodded, touch grounding her, slowly pushing herself to her feet, sometime between using her biotics without an amp and being called, the guards had backed off. 

They were apologizing to the asari, something about a security breach, something about strangers on the station. Nothing felt real. 

"Hey, Ilya, focus on breathing for me, okay?"

She nodded, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. 

Her breathing remained more or less steady as they were escorted to the main lobby, and the asari, and then Ilya, signed form after form granting her freedom. She didn't really hear anything the asari was saying, she felt like she was two feet behind herself, cold and weightless, being tugged along by her body. 

There were fairly fresh burn marks and blood spattered on the ground as they left the prison and approached the asari's ship. The guards and the Hanar seemed eager to get her out of their facility, though. She wished them luck with whatever had happened. 

Hanar did not like breaches in security, and they certainly didn't like it when enemies escaped unscathed. They were probably dead next time they touched down in a port. 

The asari hadn't let go of her since helping her off the ground, and she was grateful. It kept her from floating up and away from her body. She squeezed her hand as the asari lead her into her shuttle and into a chair. 

She was being treated like she was glass, which was laughable, considering she was a good foot taller than the asari. 

"Ilya."

She blinked, and focused on the asari standing in front of her, clasping her hands together and rubbing them. 

"Hm?"

She was pretty, deep blue skin that could also be a dark shade of purple, light, almost silvery lines dancing on her brow and threading into her fringe. She smiled, and it was warm, matronly.

Ilya wondered if her mother was still alive.

"We can go over grounding techniques once we are underway, but for now I just need to talk to our pilot and make sure everything is alright."

"Where are we going?" She should be paying more attention, but she was detached, dream like, unable to ask anything more than the most basic questions.

"We are going to the reconstructed Citadel. I practice out of a clinic there, we can help you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and being so patient with me! 
> 
> I've definitely reached a place where I can plan out the remaining chapters and I really like the style I'm going with!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> I'll tag each chapter with triggers as they come up, but please feel free to request me to trigger anything specific!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Broker offers a proposal

For the next 36 hours Ortega spent their time lounging in bed, surviving off of leftovers and dry rations that they’d stashed around the small apartment. As much as they’d like to claim all of the duration of their laziness was spent in restful sleep, it was far from true. Like clockwork, Ortega woke every hour or so, often more around the 45 minute mark. Sleep came and went in short, intense periods followed by frustratingly exhausted restlessness. They could only sigh heavily and roll over so many times before that got boring, so they’d played vids, finished up that one movie (that seemed to have taken them weeks to pay enough attention to follow the plot of the damn thing) and worked on their coding and their drones.

  
After the first night cycle - the station ran on one 48 hour period split into 2 night and 2 day cycles, slightly longer than galactic standard 36 hour cycles, but this station was more of a waypoint for Agents than an actual home - they’d resigned themselves to picking at various projects and chores for however long that distracted them from their inability to sleep and the now dreadfully long leave they were on.

  
The lack of sleep was nothing new, it’d been this way for seemingly forever; sometimes they just didn’t sleep, didn’t dream, and didn’t really feel too tired, and other times sleep and awful, panic-inducing nightmares were all they seemed to be good at. Booze and pills helped sometimes, but not as much as they’d hoped. Besides, their live-in VI kept them from abusing anything under threat of hospitalization and swift exit from the Broker’s good graces.

  
Sleeplessness wasn’t the worst of their problems. They had projects upon projects upon projects to do. They’d managed some headway on coding for a new stealth drone, though they wouldn’t be able to assemble the parts for a new one for a while. Holly, their deployable turret was gathering dust on their desk, after taking a rather hard hit a couple months ago the left gunner tended to arc up and right while firing. They’d long since gathered the parts for her but hadn’t managed to bite the bullet and put the damn thing back together. It didn’t help that now on top of reassembling her, the turret now needed to be cleared of dust before they fixed her up.

  
Argo was running fine, the drone just needed to be charged - sometime during the night they’d sleepily asked it to find their stealth drone, at which point it floated into the corner and remained there, whirring until it entered power-saving mode. Despite Argo’s perfect track record in the field, the fact that they’d checked it three, four, and five times last time they’d had leave, they went over the coding some more, pointedly ignoring Holly’s dejected form on the desk.  
It’s not like the Broker was going to send them into an active firefight again, as useful as it was to have a turret. It wasn’t their specialty. It wasn’t even Kiely’s specialty. They were both more inclined to infiltration than combat. Traven had probably been a soldier once, with how long the salarian’s resume was, but even he tended to background functions more often than not.

  
On the 36th hour (and 42nd minute) of trying and failing to be productive, Ortega received a message from an Agent, requesting a meeting somewhere near the offices they’d been interrogated in last time. Ortega groaned and allowed the VI to read the rest of the message for them; the meeting was scheduled for 14:30.

  
Gathering bits of trash and bottles that lay on the floor beside their bed, they stalked into the kitchen. “Time?”

  
The VI activated with a soft ping, “The current time is 13:42.”

  
Just long enough to eat a ration bar and jump in the shower, Ortega grumbled and got to work scrubbing the sleep from their face.

  
They gathered their necessities in a duffel bag, hands searching for their helmet, then their guns, then a few snacks, and so on. Argo go dumped on top of it’s portable charger, and they laid the mostly-packed bag by the door.  
Information was a brutal trade, they were always on call, even the leave they had wasn’t strictly guaranteed. At any moment something could come down the line, some vital bit of info that needed to be better researched, some shipment to intersect, some source to hunt down, and time was always of the essence. A meeting with an Agent only ever meant they were going to be briefed on their next mission, and that mission wasn’t far off.  
Ortega always tried to keep their bag packed before heading out the door in case they were called out.

  
“Kallum, Time?” They called again, and the VI activated with another soft ping.

  
“The current time is 14:14.”

  
They huffed and reluctantly left and locked up their apartment. They could walk there, if they went slow, with just enough time not to go stir-crazy waiting around for the Agent. Usually their anonymous informant was more than early, but they weren’t to begin the meeting until exactly the time specified, unless there was an emergency.

  
Once they got out the front door, however, the station VI hailed them with a musical tone and a bright, “Greetings Agent Ortega! A transport shuttle has been arranged for you!”

  
Their foot paused mid-step and with a roll of their eyes they nodded, “Thanks.”

  
The VI hummed delightedly, no doubt programmed to overly vocalize its moods, “The shuttle awaits you just ahead and to the left.”

  
There was a hiss of hydraulics and a welcoming beep from exactly that direction, and Ortega followed the sound, heeding the shuttles small voice, “Watch your head, Agent Ortega,” and ducking into the vehicle.

  
It was almost as bad as living on a big station, with all the perks the Broker threw their way. Last night, while walking home, if they’d requested it, the station itself would give them a series of pings to follow to their apartments, but instead they’d followed the map they accessed through their implant. They could get around just fine with their own devices, but sometimes it felt nice to just relax in the seat of the shuttle, be pampered a bit. It definitely saved them the headache early-on. Implant probably needed to be updated but Ortega was even more reluctant to fiddle with that thing than they were to dust off Holly’s disassembled remains.

  
Partly born out of suspicion, partly pride, they didn't let nobody touch them or their things. They'd be damned if they let anyone close enough to dig into their head, even if it meant a few headaches and the constant worry that the damn thing would overheat.

  
The shuttle politely told them to step off and they were, according to the shuttle’s VI, in the same building they'd been interrogated in earlier. This time, though, as they walked into the main area, they didn't hear anybody. No movement, no quiet murmuring of the receptionist, no tapping of Kiely’s impatient foot, not even foot traffic outside. They increased the sensitivity of their implants and, amid the noises of electronics humming in the background, they didn't even hear any breathing or pulses. They were alone.

  
They distinctively heard the silence of an empty office building; cool, with the smell of disinfectant wafting slowly over them, the ambient noise of the lights buzzing overhead, but still. A shiver ran along their skin, dancing up their arms and gaining force as it played its fingers down their spine. They didn't move, not trusting to lift their feet and cause enough noise to muffle another.

  
They opened their ‘Tool and quietly played their message, all the while ears straining for noise that would give away anyone trying to sneak up on them. This should be the place, and it was early, but they'd never gone anywhere without being assailed by friendly VI’s or the tired voice of another Agent, asking how they could be serviced.  
Irritated and spooked, they booted up their OS implant, ignoring the tingling itch in the port on their neck as it sparked to life and their interface loaded up. Thermal scans didn’t come up with anything substantial, so they tried for a grid map of their surroundings, listening intently to the audio feedback. They slowly scanned the room, and froze when they sensed something vaguely human shaped to their right and at the entrance to the hall leading deeper into the building.  
It had four limbs and some sort of head, though it didn't sound like the usual feedback they got when they caught a human or any other race in their grid map.

  
“Uh...hello?”

  
There was a hiss that got Ortega a handful of panicked steps back the way they'd come before a synthetic voice intoned, “Agent Ortega. We have been waiting for you.”

  
They rapid-switched from grid map to id function and their implant spat the word into their ear, “Geth.”  
They slowly coaxed their body back towards the synthetic, ignoring every cliche trope that popped into their head at the geth’s greeting. And the way it’d just been standing there, watching them, without announcing it’s presence.  
“Meeting for 14:30?”

  
“Correct. The time is 14:21, however this unit has been instructed to take you to a meeting room as soon as you are available. Please follow.”

  
With a whir that thundered in their ears - damn sensitivity was still too high - it turned and led them down the hall to whatever interrogation meeting room they'd been assigned. As they walked, they asked, “Geth, huh? Any reason you had to scare me like that?”

  
It didn't answer, merely slowed and told them to go into the room to their right and have a seat. Ortega did, scowling as they got a read on this room. It was the same as the one they'd been in earlier. Table, chairs, no windows, not much else. There was a data pad on the table but neither they nor the geth used it as they got settled.  
The geth didn’t sit, standing on the other side of the table and a short silence grew between them.

  
“Apologies, Agent. We were curious. We’d heard of impaired organics, but never seen ones with this occupation.”

  
Ortega sucked on their teeth as the nerve was hit, and they fiercely kept their tongue, glaring at nothing, mouth forming a more and more severe frown.

  
“...oh. We have offended. Apologies, Agent. We have only been operative for a few months. Working with organics is...new for us.”

  
Grudgingly, Ortega nodded, “Whatever, just don't treat me like a fucking guinea pig.”

  
They expected it to move on, to pretend it had never hid from them and watched them fumble, but it wasn't so gracious. “You are equipped with auxilliary sensors, why were you not using them when you arrived?”

  
“Dammit!” They stood up, placing their hands on the table and leaning forward, snarling, “That ain’t none of your business, is it?! I’m here fer a meetin’, not to entertain you!”

  
“...Of course, apologies.”

  
Ortega heard a soft whirring, it lasted only a few seconds before the geth was speaking again, “This unit has been self-designated Agent Echo. We are here to debrief you on the next mission and, if needed, amend your contract.”

  
Ortega slowly sank back down, their confusion over its name put on the back burner in favor of the more troubling news. “What’s wrong with my contract?”

  
“To accept this mission would be to violate your terms. It is suggested that you listen to the offer before reaching a consensus.”

  
Their brows drew together, and they uneasily drummed their fingers on the table, “So, what, you’re sending me to the Terminus?”

  
“Please listen to the full details of the mission before reaching a consensus.” If Ortega had had a hard time reading drell tones, the geth was much more difficult.

  
So they sat back, sulking, “Fine fine, get on with it.”

  
“The data you recovered pinpoints the shipment of artifacts in the Serpent Nebula, on Bekenstein. It is believed that the shipment can reach anywhere in Citadel space from the reconstructed trading ports.  
“Port Dirac is known for black-market trading, notably for its participation smuggling slaves to the Terminus. The port has been named “The Citadel’s Blind Spot” for its frequent and blatant hosting of gatherings for powerful criminals. Risk assessment places your chances of being recognized at 88.67%. There will be Terminus contacts present, and due to the nature of the mission, you will need to infiltrate the port in order to access the shipment.”

  
Ortega worried the inside of their cheek with their teeth, nervous energy radiated through them the more the geth outlined this disaster in-waiting. It sounded like a report the thing was reading from, they wondered what else was on it. If the synthetic had Ortega’s files, listing all of their ‘impairments’. They spoke, voice low, mainly to disguise the tension running through them like a live wire, “Why do I need to go, then? Just order Kiely.”

  
“No other Agent is familiar with Hadrian’s Code.”

  
Their teeth crunched down on the flesh of their cheek, tasting blood as they felt the unease turn into dread. They laughed, pushing heavily against the weight in their chest and the cold, dragging claws now running down their back, “This far away from the Terminus? We have bigger problems, then.”

  
“It is an altered form of the Code. Closed system, not connected to the network in the Terminus. Previous Agents have tried to decipher it, but it is too complex, and undercover Agents cannot risk discovery.”

  
They relaxed, but by degrees, suddenly too still to function. Their fingers drummed harder on the table, until their fingertips hurt. Their leg started bouncing, but their skin felt too sensitive, so they angrily stopped, trying to find other ways to alleviate the need to get up and scream.  
“I...can see how that violates my terms.”

  
“This unit is here to negotiate the terms of you accepting the mission.”

  
They didn't like that. Not having the option to say no. Having someone they barely knew trying to persuade them. Laughable, that they’d sent a synthetic to do it, but still. The whole thing smelled like a fake choice, and they weren't sure if they should be running away or trying to exploit how much the Broker needed them to go to Bekenstein.

On one hand, if they were discovered, the Broker could hide them, but they didn't doubt that Terminus crime lords had double agents among the Brokers ranks, just as the Broker had agents in theirs. Anonymity could only protect them for so long, once their old enemy caught their scent. They'd be back to running again, soon enough, and they were tired of it. Or, the Broker would hide them in a vault deep in the heart of a hostile planet, where they would stay until all of their enemies died off and Ortega didn't have to run anymore.

On the other, saying no to the Broker wasn't a great idea. They were already indebted to them, relied on them to keep their location a secret. They could have a semi normal mercenary life, like this. Safe on isolated stations, pretending that the long hours and lack of independence were good things.

Ortega’s leg was bouncing again, but they didn't care enough to stop it. They put their head in their hands and let out a long sigh. Their fingers ached in the chill of the room, and they pressed them into their cheeks to warm them while they thought.

  
“One who sacrifices freedom for safety deserves neither.” They lifted their head to Echo, “Old human saying. I can either say no and keep hiding or go out and risk it - the only thing I need to know is, what will you give me in return?”

  
“The Broker is prepared to be very generous, given that you share the process of breaking the code, and provide additional information about the mission.”

  
They shrugged, it wouldn't help the Broker any, so it was an easy enough request to fulfill, “Sure, now how generous are we talking?”

  
“As per the contract, any changes in location and identity are covered by the Broker as needed. A disguise and alias will be prepared for you before the mission. If you are not discovered, then nothing changes. If you are, the Broker can provide sanctuary-”

  
“I'm not interested in hidin’ from the old fuck for the rest of my life. If I get discovered, I want a ship.” They folded their hands, then unfolded them, returning restless fingers to drum unevenly on the table, “And not jus’ any shuttle, I want a small starship. It's gotta be stealthy but something that packs a punch.”

  
“You want a Normandy?”

  
The joke caught Ortega off guard, and they laughed in reflex, tension in their jaw easing. It had the best deadpan they’d ever heard, whether on purpose or not. “Nah, I’m thinking more like a corvette. Maybe Wasp-class? Those’re smaller, so I can run it myself…”

  
“Corvettes run 10-man crews.”

  
“Only when they’re running full tilt. I just need a small starship to live on alone - she’ll fly.”

  
Echo didn't reply at first, Ortega supposed it was thinking, or, whatever it was geth did. They tried to relax their jaw and cracked it a few times, before it went straight back to clenching. They rubbed their face, feeling the creases their brows were making on their face, but unable to relax all the way. Goosebumps raced up their arms as they shivered, regretting the civillian clothes they’d thrown on to go to this meeting.

  
“Such a request would take time, but the Broker is willing to negotiate.”

  
“How much time before I need to board ship?”

  
“Two galactic Standard hours.”

  
Ortega tsked and drawled, smirk beginning to form on their face, they had the advantage, now. “And you need to finalize contracts before then.”

  
“One moment, calculating a counter offer. Would you like a drink, Agent?”

  
“I would, but I was taught not to drink and negotiate.” They leaned forward on their elbows and popped their back, waiting the synth out.

  
There was a high chance that they'd be found, even if they had a great disguise. Once Hadrian’s Code was cracked every piece of data would be collected and analyzed and sent back to the Colony, to figure out where the Code went wrong, who was there, every single variable accounted for and added to the existing Code. They wouldn’t be surprised if Hadrian’s team took DNA samples on all of the plants. A closed system, though...that was worrying. Not as much as knowing Hadrian was encroaching on Citadel space, but worrying all the same. Was it so much to ask that the Terminus stay in the Terminus?

  
They kicked out their feet, crossed them, then uncrossed them and resumed tapping their foot. Whatever. Wasn't their problem anymore. They just needed to do one job, tell the Broker not to ask them to do it again, and do as any odd jobs as they could before they got their ship, save up the money to set out on their own.

  
“The Broker approves of a small Corvette, no less than a WASP-class, in exchange for this upcoming mission as well as a follow up.”

  
Their hand dropped from their chin and thudded softly on the table. The grin was off their face in an instant, “What type of follow up?”

  
“The Broker is aware of what you’ll do given the opportunity, Agent Ortega. You are a known flight-risk. The Broker simply acknowledges it, and is giving you a way out. This mission, then a special assignment on the Citadel, then you will be rewarded. If you desire it, you will also be given the opportunity to terminate your contract.”

  
“Too good to be true…” They sucked on their teeth and stood up, placing their hands on the table, “Alright, I'll bite.”

  
“It is a simple search and retrieve mission. Data suggests that the artifacts are being collected and distributed throughout the Citadel. You are to meet up with the Broker’s Agents residing there, and retrieve them.” The datapad slid across the table and rested lightly against their spread fingertips. “The terms are listed, it will take a moment for the contract to be drawn. We will send you the data for the missions once the terms are agreed to.”

  
Ortega picked it up and held up a finger as they listened to the terms of the agreement. Nothing sneaky had been added, though Echo, or the Broker or whoever it was the synthetic was getting approval from had provided yet another offer to hide Ortega if they were compromised during this mission.

  
To their surprise, even if they weren't compromised, the Broker extended the offer of the ship and a clean breakaway, though if Ortega simply wanted a new contract, they could arrange for that as well.

  
They sat there, blinking, listening to the terms on repeat, unable to shake to feeling of apprehension. Nothing was free.  
“Where's the catch?” They asked, incredulous.

  
“Catch, Agent?”

  
“There's something you're not telling me.”

  
“There are a great many things we are not telling you, Agent, but none of which have to do with the negotiations.” Damn bot could open a comedy club.

  
They shook their head, tapping their foot incessantly, “There's no way the Brokers just gonna let me go. Where's the threats to leak my info to the Terminus? Where's the small print?!”

  
“...has this unit done something wrong? The terms are clear, are they not?”

  
Ortega shook their head, “Just...Humor me. Take me through it one more time. Word for word.”

A half hour later Ortega followed the synth out of the offices, scowling and surly despite their apparent good fortune. They chewed on their cheek on the shuttle ride back to their apartment, they worried at their hair as they gathered their stuff and got another ride to the shuttle bay (both ways the VI assisting them was ignored). And even as Kiely and Tragen met them, sitting on their duffel bag, back to the wall, they sulked. So much so that Kiely opened his mouth, “Something on your mind, Ortega? Didn't like the debriefing?”

  
“Huh?” They blinked and pulled up the mission on their ‘Tool, while Kiely kept talking.

  
“We’re attending an auction! Gonna dress up nice and play stiff rich-folk, I’m surprised you're not more excited.”

  
They listened to the debriefing, paying more attention to it than Kiely, but as he clapped them on the back, they couldn't help but grin back, “Oh man, this is the stuff of fantasy, Kiely. Like old school spy vids.”

  
“I’m Double-Oh-Seven, with my charms, I have to be. You gonna be my arm candy?”

  
Ortega ignored that uncomfortable suggestion in favor of excitedly pulling up a picture of the suit they'd ordered the microsecond that they’d been given some reign deciding what they wanted to wear. “I'm gonna look suave as hell, Kiely, we’ll tear the place up!”

  
Kiely looked at the picture, humming, “Damn, you'll look better than me…”

  
“Duh, Kiely. I always look better than you.” Their Shuttle arrived and they followed him in, elbowing him aside to spread out on one side of the shuttle and claim as much space as possible. They rolled on their back and crossed their ankles, pointing Kiely to the opposite side of the shuttle.

  
A soft voice cleared their throat at the other end of Ortegas pointing finger. “Hello Agents, I’m here to help you with your covers.”

  
Ortega scrambled up to a sitting position, face flushing as Kiely quietly muffled his laughter somewhere to their left. Traven made a noise of disapproval and disappeared into the cockpit. “Uh, yeah. Thanks, so, what exactly are you doing?”

  
The voice gave a short laugh, then, “Your fake names, ids, backgrounds, and a new face, just for today. Lots of powerful enemies waiting for us in Bekenstein."

  
Cool hands gently took Ortega’s, and they flinched away, “Don’t touch.” They swatted at the air in front of them and bared their teeth, “Ask first.” Their cheer over the mission, fake or not, fizzled as quickly as it came.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry...may I begin with some makeup?”

“No,” they bit out, “Do Kiely first.”

  
Ortega drew their knees up and wedged themselves in the corner of their seat, armrest digging into their backs as they listened to Kiely apologetically telling the Agent to be careful.

  
They could handle the VI, and, to a lesser extent, the geth. AI were curious, above all else, and they'd never known one to laugh at them, but people were a different story. Their tones, their voices, most of them sounded flat. Ortega could read some of it, but they never knew who was pulling their strings.

  
They glowered, going over the debriefing a few times, checking their false identity - Avery Black, small colony arms-dealer seeking to expand their horizons among the wealthy - and, giving the Agent - who they learned was some Asari named Fey - the cold shoulder.

  
They were allowed to chose their formal wear, but the asari's judgement on makeup and prosthetics was law. They listened in as Kiely was given a few choice scars, a temporary tattoo to rival some of the more hardcore mercenaries, and a subtle temp facial makeover. Enough to change key characteristics enough to fool anyone who met him while they were out.

  
Echo pinged them with their contract and a request to message them again, under no real orders to, but it explained that it wanted to ask them more questions about their sensors, which they ignored completely, deleting the message as soon as they'd gone over the contract once more and signed it off.

  
No matter what the Broker had in store, they couldn't say no to a shiny ship dangled in front of them, and they'll be damned if they do this mission only to be hidden somewhere forever, always under someone's thumb. All they had to give was information about the code, this mission, the next one - which they were already regretting, there had to be somewhere near 120 artifacts on the Citadel and they were going to have to steal most of them - and they were free.  
They'd already changed their name and their face, given that they kept their cover here, they would be free to run off and start a new life.

  
Their eyes slid closed as they tuned out the murmuring of their shipmates. Finally, after the disaster with the Peony, they could set out once more under their own power and hopefully keep working for the Broker - but from the freedom of their own ship. The apartments were nice, but nothing felt safer for them than being adrift, surrounded by darkness, their own programs and their own ship VI keeping them safe.

  
“Agent Ortega…” Feys voice roused them, and they got up, not even fully awake before they grunted that it was okay for her to touch them, if she let them know before she did anything new. By now she'd learned the score, either told by Kiely or informed by the Broker the best way to deal with them. That's all they were, was some short fuse to placate, after all. Some set of unrealistic demands to be met, to keep them from bitching, right? That's why Kiely was such a pain in the ass, anyway. They could be friends if he'd stop trying so hard and being so mad whenever he messed up.  
God, they were grumpy, so they focused on the asari, who was detailing how they were erasing their scars and freckles and lightening their skin a bit to confuse any potential informants. They would also get a nice new set of blonde hair extensions and implants just below the skin, complete with its own strands of DNA in case they were grabbed. For the issue of skin cells, the asari sprayed a cool mist over them that smelled suspiciously like hair spray, and they listened with interest as the asari instructed them to bathe in hot water to get the gunk off and allow their skin to breathe post-mission.

  
Next came the painstaking application of makeup and prosthetics to change the shape of their face. The asari tried chatting with them, and they attempted to be amicable, but they learned more about her - she'd studied to be a makeup artist for the big movies, and ended up in hot water when she pissed off the wrong person and got blacklisted - than they would ever dream of sharing. Must be nice to be so open - not that Ortega would be caught dead talking about their past as if it were something so freely given. They were happier this way, nothing holding them back, no friends to placate, and complete independence just on the horizon.

  
Kiely sat next to them, to their distaste, once the Asari was done, and they tried to lapse into silence. As usual, that wasn’t the plan.

  
“You look hot as a blonde, Ortega.”

  
“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth.” They didn’t even bother opening their eyes. Same shit, different day.

  
“What’s your deal? I’m sorry I called you a man, Ortega, this is pretty hard for me.”

  
“Okay, thanks, apology accepted.”

  
“It’s just...back home I knew you when you were, you know, not the person you are now.” Kiely was helping no one with his inability to drop things.

  
“Odd how easy it is to learn my new name but not my new identity.” Ortega was downright proud of themselves for the bored, uninterested tone they stuck to, even as they felt their face heating up.

  
“You know what I mean, Ortega.”

  
They took a deep breath, “Kiely...I’m gonna tell you again - only because this is so hard for you, and only you - strangely enough. Cebal hasn’t slipped up once. Even the geth I talked to earlier knew what to call me and how to refer to me. So-”

“-yeah but they didn’t know you as a kid.”

  
“SO, I’ll lay it out for you. Again.” They scowled at him, daring him to interrupt again. “Not a boy, not a girl; use ‘they’ when referring to me; I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me things like beautiful, hot, cute, handsome-”

  
“Then what do I call you?”

  
“Ortega.”

  
“No...when I want to compliment you.” Ortega couldn’t wait until they never had to hear that simpering tone again.

  
“Don’t.”

  
Kiely huffed, “This is so weird, I’ll have to get used to it…”

  
Ortega stood up, under the pretense of stretching, “Just treat me like you do Traven. I’ve yet to hear you fawn over him.”

  
“Why do you have to make this so awkward between us, Ortega? Aren’t we friends?”

  
They turned around to hide their annoyance, and stalked to the back of the ship to sit with their duffel. “We were - when we were kids.”

  
They almost jammed their helmet on their head, remembering their makeup at the last minute and setting it aside. Damn, if this kept up they’d take up smoking - anything as long as it busied their hands and took the edge off of the constant irritation of having to deal with other people’s shit. This was the third time they’d tried to tell Kiely, and it had ended with the same whining and balking and crying about his own emotions.

  
Ortega knew they were a burden, blind and pretty and confusing. Their fault. All of it. Even though no one from back home had an issue with it - strangely enough. They only met people like Kiely from the Colonies - those special self-governed planets that managed to slide backwards as fast as civilized space leapt forwards. They’d almost cried the first time the crew of the Peony called them by their newer title.

  
Even so, Kiely’s burdens weighed heavily on their shoulders, Kiely’s emotions battering at the little patience they had. God forbid they actually get mad at him, too.

  
They thumped the back of their head against the bulkhead, eyes sliding shut.  
Soon, they’d be able to come and go as they pleased, and they’d never have to talk to anyone outside of work again. Just them and their ship.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a year later and I’m still working on this! Thank you for reading and sticking by me!

  
“So techniques vary by personal taste, so if the first few don't work, we can try other methods.”  
Ilya nodded, eyes straying to the window, watching the stars as they moved through space in FTL. The Relay was a while out, on the other side of the system. For now the stars streaked by, cold light breaking up the blank nothing outside the window.

  
The darkness was familiar, but striking, drawing her eyes to the negative space more and more as her savior spoke slowly, reassuringly, like she was some frightened civilian.

  
She was a civilian now, wasn't she? No more covert operations, no more Hanar secrecy. No military in the universe would hire someone who’d been indoctrinated. No merc group would take someone who was 3 years (had it really only been 3?) out of combat. Was she just supposed to find work wherever? She’d never had to rent an apartment before, she wasn't sure she even knew how, at any rate, she had no money.

  
“Aure Lakmi.” The asari was smiling at her, but her lips were pressed together in a thin line. “I can see you worrying. Take a deep breath and focus on the feeling in your hands.”

  
She nodded, eyes darting down to their clasped hands. The asari squeezed them, her thumbs putting pressure on the junction between her thumb and first finger. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it was sharp, incessant. She shifted, resisted the urge to pull away, and focused on the feeling in her hands.

  
The asari grinned, “Pressure points. Always a good way to ground. I get the feeling you prefer touch.

  
“While I have your attention, I am Matriarch D’Raza. I have a small clinic in the Citadel. I deal mostly with those suffering the after effects of the war. I also help the formerly. indoctrinated recover, if they still have the ability to.”  
Ilya stared into the Matriarchs eyes and nodded slowly, the pressure of D’Raza’s fingers beginning to send tendrils of tingling numbness up her forearms.

She tugged, gently, and D’Raza released her hands.

  
“I don't want you to feel anxious about anything. My clinic will take care of every aspect of your reintegration into society. You even have a job offer.”

  
The promise of a job didn’t fill her with the hope no doubt the matriarch wanted it to, instead she found herself perplexed. She’d only ever done one thing. She’d only ever been hired to do one thing.

  
“Who?”

  
“An old friend of yours. We’ll meet him after we get your intake taken care of. Nothing too bad, just a few days observation, some medical check ups, make sure you're healthy.”

  
Ilya hadn't been aware that she had friends. Any left, anyway. For a brief second hope clasped its hands around her heart and she imagined it was Durzha waiting for them. Of all her team she’d broken him the least, perhaps-  
Just as quickly she squashed the thought; not likely. She didn't deserve that small mercy, having inadvertently spared one of her team.

  
The silence brought her out of her thoughts, and she looked up, catching D’Razas sad smile before it smoothed out into an encouraging one.

  
Her words formed the name, but the instant she reached the second syllable a gunshot jerked the muscles in her stomach and back. Her hands became claws and she gripped the arm rests of the chair so hard it creaked. Every tendon stood out in her hands, and she felt the air leave her body.

  
She was only here to be handed off to the most influential party. She’d put her faith in something so faceless as Citadel health care, where her benefactor had in fact been private, and eager for blood.

  
Her breath whistled in her chest and she managed to mouth her words out through every rushed gasp.   
“Sere La’Drynn...holds nothing but...ill will for me.”

  
The Matriarchs confused and alarmed face melted into another soft smile. She shook her head, shushing and tutting as her hands found Ilyas own, fingers tracing gentle circles on her palms. “Believe me, Ilya, he wants to see you rehabilitated.”

  
“No…” She couldn’t force the words out, they were piling up in her head, sirens and screams and the crushing sense that she was already dead, she only had to wait for him to come and end her in whatever painful way he deemed appropriate.

“He wants me…” The word swelled in her throat, and stopped dead in her chest. So many words crowding in her head, she couldn’t grab any one, she choked on how many were flashing by. She froze, just like she’d done then.

“ _Cruel lips sneering as he sees me, he’s grown so tall since I knew him as a boy, all blues and oranges, poisonous and wrathful. Those eyes gaze into mine, nothing but hatred and pain and loss. A few pairs of eyes and several rainbow arcs of color enveloping pink bodies all show their fury with such a traitor. An iron-grip hauls me forward into the room, closer to the witnesses._  
Words float by, I am in no mood to pay attention to them, my fate never was in my hands.   
The voice is colder than any other I’ve heard, ice upon a stormy sea, a glacier sitting still amongst a powerful squall and the slow-moving mountains of water. “I don’t see why we even need this trial.”   
A murmur of agreement, but the others cannot hurt her, she left herself so long ago she felt nothing, not even the injuries she sustained aboard that dying station. The only thing that touched her were those eyes, dark and deep and dead, like Kalahira’s embrace. I look away.  
Commander Quill’s son is young and hurting and alone, and he wants me dead almost more than I do.  
Almost.”

Energy, no, biotics - she would never forget the feeling, the taste of them, gathering in her palms and making trails up her forearms and hands. She jolts out of the memory, an entirely different fear taking hold of her. Her biotics weren’t responsible, but even so she shut her eyes and gritted her teeth, doing her best to suppress them. Hands join the biotic energy and she opens her eyes to stare into the Matriarch’s.

  
Immediately, D’Raza releases her and removes her hand and her biotics, apologizing profusely. “I’m sorry, Aure Lakmi, but I couldn’t bring you out of your memory.”

  
She grabbed Ilya’s arms again, “I assure you, Ilya, Sere La’Drynn has decided to help you recover, and has no plans on harming you.”

The asari’s eyes darted down for a moment, then met Ilya’s once more, and she spoke softly, soothing, “And if he shows any hostility then I will pull you out of the situation immediately.”

  
Ilya blinked and nodded, still feeling as if her world was swiftly tilting to the side - and she unable to find anything to grab onto.

 

D’Raza released her and started typing into her OmniTool, “You’re safe with me, Ilya. Trust me.”

  
Ilya turned back to the window, curling up on herself, feeling both numb and shaky and weak, as if by chance should she shake off the fear then the apathy was there, waiting for her.

  
No matter what D’Raza thought, Sere La’Drynn wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart. She owed him, and he was going to make sure she paid him back.

It was only fair she work for the man she’d orphaned, after all.

* * *

 

“Mx. Black.”

 

Ortega smiled and took the hand offered to them, stepping carefully off of the ship and onto the dock. After that long, awkward shuttle ride, Kiely was back to his old self, playing the part of generous benefactor to their burgeoning weapons dealings. Avery Black was here on a certain Empyrion Gratte’s invite, a larger smuggler helping out a smaller, newer smuggler. They made sure to pronounce it Grat-teh as they thanked him and gave the place an good look. Big, with lots or arches and pillars and other needless architecture. Open air, like only very cheap or very expensive ports were. People everywhere, pinging off of their sensors like crazy, yet the conversation was a subdued background noise. Order and class.

  
Ortega tried to act the part, and was disappointed when they felt themselves falling into old habits rather easily. Their suit was nice, silky soft and flowing in the places it wasn’t tight and sharp. Their make up designer assured them that they looked very nice, and judging by Kiely’s begrudging compliments they looked good, but not as feminine as Kiely would have liked.

  
They ran their fingers lightly over their sleeve, thick both to disguise their figure and to support the rich embroidery decorating the fabric.

  
Something so painstakingly created was bound to fit in with the smugglers, just as whatever Kiely had on was to give off an air of expense.

  
For once, Ortega was encouraged to enjoy the fancy clothes and the even fancier party. Too bad the very act of indulgence set them on edge.

  
They reached a checkpoint, another bright blip on their radar, and Ortega found themself following close behind Kiely, only to be stopped by the guards as a discordant blaring of an alarm sounded as they passed through a scanner.  
They swallowed their panic and smiled uncertaintly as the guards checked them over, remarking, “Turn off the offensive tech and disable any recording devices, please.”

  
They laughed, relieved, and turned off all the background apps thy could, before allowing themself to be scanned again.   
More alarms, and they snipped before the guards could ask again - “I need these programs to see.”

  
“Oh - sorry, one moment please…”

  
A new voice, coming from the party floor ahead, “Mx. Avery Black?”

  
Kiely cleared his throat, “Excuse me - this is my date.”

  
“I’m talking to them, not you.” The voice sweetly countered, then moved in front of them. “I’ve heard about you - and I have quite the offer for you regarding your implants.”

The guards backed off, and they were free to move forward, past the scanner. “Oh? And you are?”

 

“Oh, I’m Reigen Wallace, I run a, hm, modest tech company out of Noveria.” As they stepped forward they covered their flinch with a cough as Reigen took their arm and lead them into the party, Kiely’s nervous interjections trailing behind them completely ignored. “I’m very interested in the hardware you’re using, may I ask the make?”

 

Ortega covered their mouth as they tittered, slowly extricating themself from Reigen’s arm, “Oh, thank you but it’s not necessary.” They smiled and pretended they cared about this man’s company. “I’m running an Oc II custom model. A gift from my fiance.” They reached back, snapping their fingers, and Kiely took their arm, pulling them away from Reigen.

 

Reigen laughed, either ignoring or unaware of the man standing next to Ortega. “An Oc II? Those are ancient! And customizing those is a real beast, isn’t it?” His voice became smooth, prying, “Can’t you afford a basic Optic interface? It’s a shame eyes so pretty can’t work like normal - you really should think about upgrading! In fact I can offer you a deal with my-”

 

For just a moment, Ortega’s pretty smile turned venomous, and they felt a rush of power as they delicately interrupted him, eyes opened wide and staring, no doubt, just to the left of the source of all the noise. “Normal, Mr. Wallace? I assure you, if I wanted one-to-one optic replacements, I would have them. Before you try to worry too much over me, I would worry much more over your future clients, whom I am sure would not appreciate being called Abnormal.”

 

They waved their fingers as Kiely led them past him, and they kept the small, sharp smile on their face until they were sure Reigen was out of sight, so to speak, before the smile dropped and their expression smoothed into apathy. They were humming with energy, proud over their perfect enunciation and lack of accent.

 

Kielys low chuckles signaled their getting out of earshot, too. Water splashed nearby, and Ortega scanned the area for a basic layout of the main room. Kiely steered them toward one of many small corners offering privacy via a short wall topped with artificial vegetation. They pressed their back to the smooth metal and cool leaves, smirking along with Kiely.   
“Just like when we were kids. Use em and lose em.”

 

Ortega smiled, all teeth, “Glad I didn’t have to come in completely blind. Fucking implants.”

 

Kiely nodded, the motion transferring from his arm around theirs, then he asked, voice significantly lower, “The Oc II was old when you had your, um, accident. Why did Ha-“

  
Ortega dug their elbow in his side, painfully, before laughing as if he said something funny. “Don’t say his name. Not here.”

  
The people around them were in small, isolated groups, and luckily they’d avoided the hosts attention, no doubt in part thanks to Reigen’s interference. Kiely was their eyes here, and he wouldn’t risk it unless they were far away from eavesdroppers but there was no telling what type of bugs were here.

  
They listened to the background convo, then spoke slowly, smile still plastered on their face, “If you can’t figure out why I was given an old finicky ocular system with multiple exploitable flaws then you know nothing about our home world.”

  
Kiely shrugged, wisely dropping the thought. “That was almost like going to the parties back home. You were always a prin-uhh...noble sort.”

  
Ortega tittered and squeezed his arm while they switched between setting on their os, searching for the backdoor that lead to security. Their informant was to make sure their entryway was empty and alarms turned off, at least in this main room. Once they got deeper into the complex it was their job to get to the index and hack in to figure out where their artifacts were going.

Kiely was to get them close enough, and if needed, to talk them out of any trouble they got in. They traced several hidden cables to a small door near the back that wasn’t guarded by any infrared signatures, and they nudged Kiely and nodd3d towards it, keeping the plastic smile on.

This really was like the parties back home, it felt the same, smiling and hanging onto someone’s arm, pretending everything was fine.

Without warning Kiely spun them around, hand grabbing onto their neck as he pulled them close. Ortega said nothing, but stiffened, until they felt Kiely peck their cheek, murmuring into their ear, “Salaís is here.”

  
They nodded, leaning on his chest to hide both their faces from view, Kiely kept his face pressed to their cheek, uncomfortably close, but no one would examine the two lovebirds closely, and Ortega was more relieved that he remembered not to get handsy.

  
Kiely huffed a laugh, warm breath smelling of mint washing over their face. “Don’t worry Mx. Black, I know if I really did kiss you, you’d tase me in the balls.”

 

Ortega grinned, this one a little more genuine. This Kiely was almost bearable. Of course he’d always been a smooth talker, when he turned the charm on and stopped worrying about himself.

“Is it really Salaís?”

“Yeah. She’s with some Colony op, looks like they got hitched.”

Ortega snorted, “All the better we left.”

Kiely grunted and steered them away from their corner, murmuring the names of people he recognized. Ortega tried to act relaxed but with each name they felt their shoulders tense. So many Terminus connections here, in the heart of Citadel space. That and Hadrian’s Code meant something was brewing. They itched to be out of here, but now they needed their own ship more than ever.

“Herr Gratte, Mx. Black.”

Kiely just as abruptly swung them around to face this new voice, who introduced itself as Finley Stotter. The host.

They murmured greetings and nodded their head, allowing Kiely to take over conversation-wise. Stotter was quick to tell them the short history of Port Dirac, from its earnest beginnings in the ashes of the war, to Shepards assault on the once-great collection of rare artifacts and art, and finally - as he led them to a no doubt impressive view on the outer balcony - to the port and the city as it was today.

  
They were closer to the backdoor, and Ortega mapped the area well, noting every small group of guests between them and their target.

  
The breeze and the quality of sound told them they were up in the air before a wide open airspace, with the faint sounds of the city a few miles inland from the port.

“So Mx. Black I hear you’re thinking of expanding into Terminus territory.”

Ortega beamed and nodded, “Yes. The Horsehead Nebula is nice but all of these rules and regulations are strangling my business. Everyone deserves to be armed an dangerous, for the right price.” They winked, and were rewarded with a hearty chuckle from Stotter.

  
“We must have a discussion later, then. We’ve recently made trade deals with the Terminus’ most popular surviving human colonists. So far out into Batarian territory, they need all the arms they can get.”

  
Ortega nodded solemnly, “I bet. Those aliens don’t understand anything other than firepower, I hear.”

Stotter bellowed laughter and clapped them on the shoulder, which Kiely subtly tugged them away from. “I like this one, Gratte, we must get them to our outer colonies.”

“S’why I brought them. Your associates need more ruthless business partners nowadays.”

Stotter shoved Kiely, who swayed into Ortega, chuckling and muttering darkly, “Only us Colony kids understand how little aliens care about us humans. Remind me to introduce you to our old Terra Firma contacts. They’ll want to meet you too. Until then, I have other guests. Tell anyone interested that Mx. Black has my personal seal of approval.”

  
To Ortega he added, “Try not to disappoint us, Black.”

They walked to the edge of the balcony, where the wind and the sounds of shuttles would drown out their dialogue.  
“Human extremists never change, do they?”

“I could have written the script he just gave us.” Kiely agreed, stepping away and releasing Ortega’s arm. “We wait here until the balcony crowd thins out. We can arrange for a distraction from our inside source if need be, but sooner or later someone with higher clearance than Salaís will show up. Did you catch his ‘new trade agreements’? Our old friend is moving in on Citadel space.”

“Maybe. He could be outsourcing the Code to collect data on his ‘friends’ and to test it’s capabilities. But why so many of his family here? He never let anyone leave the Colony.” They shivered in the open air, goosebumps racing up their arms. This felt so claustrophobic despite the voices echoing in the ridiculously decadent main hall. So many old faces that could recognize them. So many Colonists in the “safe” section of space. Why?

Kiely hummed, “Every colonist was accompanied by one of the security officers. I recognized enough from when I was still planetside. They may be traveling but they are still supervised.”

“Of fucking course.”

They stood there, after a few minutes of silence Kiely began describing the sky, which helped out quite a bit with Ortega’s fidgeting.

“Sunsets were always a weird peach color back home, weren’t they?” They tried to remember the exact color, but time had bleached all of their memories.

“Yeah. Here it’s red, redder than you would think it could get. Red to blue to purple-black. City’s red too.”

“Ominous.”

“Yeah.” Kiely coughed, then took their arm, “The lights irritating my eyes, let’s head somewhere quiet.”

“You always did get migraines, how are those these days?” They strolled towards the back, and Kiely twisted, looking both ways before guiding them to the door.

“I manage.” He turned, pressing his back to theirs. They were more or less the same height, but Kiely was broader, and could sheild them from view while they got the door open.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time to get it open, and they both slipped in, Ortega taking point so they could find any alarms they might encounter.

“Paging Cebal to let him know we’re in.”

Ortega nodded, scanning as they went. They found most of the motion sensors were deactivated, and they came on a few overloaded cameras. The security room should be likewise cleared, and then once they got the data they would run through the loading bay where Cebal had stolen a transport. From here they were going straight to the Citadel. At a later date Ortega’s things would be smuggled to them. Until then it was just them and Kiely. No drones to occupy their time.

They’d probably spend the trip picking off all this makeup. It was already irritating their skin and smothering them.

“Window.” Kiely said, a second after Ortega’s implants gave the same warning, they crouched and crossed the hall, Kiely making a disgusted sound in his throat at whatever he saw. Ortega didn’t ask, didn’t try to figure out what was in there.

They reached the room (which was a bright spot on Ortega’s various scans, complete with two unconscious guards laying in the corner). The second the door closed behind them Kiely pulled out his gun, clicking it open, and Ortega activated their full oc suite to deal with the computer.

  
Basic programs dealt with the locks, and soon they were digging into all of the info they could get a hold of.   
The guest list was unencrypted, as were the less important information of those catering the event. They found the manifest and the screen went blank the second they accessed it, Code filling the screen, sounding like a garbled mess to Ortega’s ears.

  
They tiptoed around it, but Hadrian’s Code was like a watchdog, shutting down everything else in order to force the intruder to try to crack it - and fail.

  
Like it had been back then, Ortega found several entryways, but they didn’t trust the codes they’d known worked back then. Like the geth had said, this one wasn’t attached to an AI, thankfully, but it still wasn’t something to mess with. They searched through what they could, trying to pick it a part where they could, but it was like trying to scale a completely smooth wall. They sighed, entering commands they’d used back when they’d been working on it, finding their old cache of codes, listening to data streams and trying to find any of the old back ways that hadn’t been filled in by the AI.

  
“Stotter knows we’re missing. No time to be delicate, Ortega. Get us in.”

 

Their fingers jolted across the keys, nervous energy breaking them out into a sweat. They listened to the code again, and froze, breath catching in their chest, as they heard something that absolutely should not be there.   
They keyed it again, to be sure, and found something they had never put there, in the middle of their contribution the the encryption.

Seven notes, repeating and changing subtly as they repeated, an old song they’d done their best to forget.

_You are my stars in the sky…_

They screwed their eyes shut, teeth grinding together. A set up. This was a fucking set up. The same Pavlovian shit he’d pulled back when he’d acted like he cared about them. Risk and reward. He was baiting them, and they knew they couldn’t afford to spend more time than necessary cracking this.

“Alarms are going off, Ortega, they’re looking for us. We need to go.”

Enter the rest, get the info, tip him off that they were still alive. They cursed, then quickly typed in the last four notes to the song, sickness filling their gut like it had been long ago when they’d been hunted.

  
Immediately, his husky laughed filled the air between them. “Knew you were alive, Briar, now I know where. Tell your friends what I do to people who help you. Better yet, ask the last traitor who did.”

Ortega’s hands flew over the keys, downloading everything they could and keying the terminal to erase everything it could once they were done. The more he spoke, the further away they felt from the screen and the keys and the man now shouting over Hadrian’s guttural laugh. Another voice, this one thin and harried, they recognized it like an electric shock.

“I don’t know anything, please-“

Ortega’s eyes fluttered closed and they froze mid key-smash, entire body breaking out in sweat.

Their heart fluttered like a birds, and they felt faint, dimly aware of the small bip alerting them that all data was downloaded.

“Lisette, we used to be friends. I saved your father from slavery. This is how you repay me.”

Lisette was dead, they knew. Had known for years. This recording was old. The old bastard had added this into the code knowing they would eventually try to crack it. He was giving up his Citadel contacts just to get to them, and it was working.

“I was gonna bring her back! I just wanted to show her how awful the outside world was! Make her come crawling back to you!”

Lisette was saying exactly what he wanted to hear. They didn’t blame her. It wouldn’t save her.

“I need to keep my people in line, you understand.”

She sobbed, wasting her last breath begging for her life.

Kiely grabbed Ortega roughly and dragged them away, as they were hauled out of the security room they heard the first of her high, ragged shrieks.

They ran, numb and distant, not paying attention to Kielys voice or the way he dragged them along with him. Lisette was five years dead, the old fucker knew they’d try to break his code. Where else had he planted these “disconnected” systems with their single obvious flaw, waiting for them?

The Broker owed them their ship. They had maybe a month before Citadel space was crawling with Terminus ops. They needed to run, they needed to hide. No matter what vault the Broker hid them in, he would find them.

They were thrown, roughly, into a ship amidst the bark of gunfire, where they crawled until their body was pressed against the freezing metal plating. They curled in on themselves, shaking and mute, waiting to be found. Waiting for him to come get them and drag them back.

The sounds died away, and Kiely grumbled, but didn’t shout. He stomped to the back while Traven flew them out of there. Ortega pulled at their hair implants and wiped the makeup off of their face, prosthetic crumbling off of their face as they scrubbed it.

When he came for them, they wouldn’t be ashamed of what they’d done to get off the Colony. They’d have a ship and they’d run until they died.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for Reading! Kudos and comments are always welcome, and as always feel free to reach me at my [tumblr](arkadyflinch.tumblr.com) for more updates!


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